


A Day in the Life

by okaynextcrisis



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaynextcrisis/pseuds/okaynextcrisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted Bill/Laura minifics, written for various prompts, set throughout the series.  Frequently angsty but not always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: things we said when we were the happiest we ever were
> 
> Set: Founder's Day on New Caprica

The stars are beginning to swim, glowing tails dancing, melting into the velvet blackness above him, and the noise of the party is fading, the music and laughter and gleeful shouts dimming, and somehow Laura's head is on his shoulder, her rich red hair bare inches from his lips, her cool hand resting on his chest.

Bill won't deny that the world is a little hazy just now (he doubts the stars are anything by stationary points of light; the party may well be going strong) but even so, he's fairly certain that there was no sharp delineation, no distinct moment of choice between Laura lying next to him and Laura halfway on top of him. He is sure he didn't resort to any subterfuge about needing her closer so her sight line could pick out a particular star pattern; he is almost positive she invented no pretext about the chill of the night air. They are just here, together, as though they've always been this way, as though (a voice in his mind whispers) they always could be.

"So what's this cabin of yours going to look like?"

Her hand is moving lazily, fingers absently tracing a pattern across the thick material of his uniform. "Nothing fancy," she informs him. "Just a few balconies…a pool…maybe a topiary garden…"

She laughs, and it feels so good, to hear her so free, so light, that he can't resist brushing his lips, just barely, against the top of her head. Her hair smells different on this planet, clean air and fresh dirt and whatever soap they've invented, a spicy undertone he can't quite place, and he wants to bury his face in those curls, let that scent permeate his being.

She tilts her head up a little, and her knowing smile makes his mouth go dry. "I just want a home," she says, emphasizing the word in a way that makes him ache. "Not a curtained-off space on Colonial One, not a tent in the mud…just four walls and a roof."

"No floor?" he teases.

"Good point," she agrees. "Add a floor."

His fingers skim her shoulder, her skin warm beneath that glorious red dress, the dress he'd thought she'd worn for the party, but is beginning to suspect was for him, instead.

"How big is it going to be?"

"I don't need much room," she decides. "Just enough space for a real bed, and a desk, and a few books…"

His hand stills. "Not planning on many visitors?" he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

" _Many_ , no." She pauses. "But maybe a select few. If they made time to visit."

"It would be safest to build it for two people, then," he observes. "That way you won't have to worry about it getting too crowded."

Her lips quirk, and she leans closer, her cheek smooth against his. "That's a very good point."

"The real question is how we'll keep the rain out," he reflects, fighting a losing battle against the stupid smile threatening at the edge of his lips. "I hear it rains quite a bit here…"

"Mmm," Laura agrees. "We wouldn't want that nice floor to get soggy."

"You could probably use mud bricks for the walls, but we're going to want something drier for the roof," he muses. "What's the timber situation like?"

"Not too promising," Laura admits. "But the tarps are keeping out the worst of the rain, at least so far…"

"Maybe there's something in one of my history books," he guesses. "Maybe something about building technologies in ancient civilizations…"

Laura laughs, the sound rich and soothing in his ear. "Maybe."

Maybe this really is how he'll spend all the rest of his days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress."
> 
> Set: between Someone to Watch Over Me and Islanded in a Stream of Stars

She talks, sometimes, in what he would like to think of as her sleep, what he knows is the fog of pain and morpha and chamalla, the confusion of a strange bed, unfamiliar sounds.

Sickbay is still new, to both of them.

Sometimes she mumbles about Hera, about Earth, about the Opera House. Sometimes it's silly things, memories, maybe, fragments :  _you forgot your cat, why are you so purple, give me one good reason why I should wear a dress_.

Bill does not think of himself as a sentimental man, and he has never been a romantic.

But he would have liked to see Laura in that red dress, just one more time.

Bill does not allow himself to indulge in  _what-ifs_. They met how they met, they did what they had to do, they had what they had. But sometimes, when he's here but Laura isn't, not really, when her eyes slip shut and her mind wanders, when he's left alone—

_They meet at a government function, in a bookstore, in a bar._ (Never mind that Bill can't think of a single other event that would require the Secretary of Education and a battlestar commander, that he would never have struck up a conversation with a stranger, that he and Laura would never have frequented the same bar.) _They are married within a year: a small wedding, private, no fuss. He wears his dress grays; she talks about just pulling a suit out of her closet, and he doesn't argue…but when he sees her in her dress, the ivory warm against the flush of her skin, he can't help but be happy she made a little fuss, after all._

_They both complain about all the events required by her job: the fundraisers, the rallies, the numbingly tedious parties. But when she leans closer to whisper in his ear during a formal dinner, when she catches his eye across a crowd, when he watches her getting ready to go out, when she holds up her mass of red hair for him to zip up her dress—_

No. It's better not to think about it.

"Bill?"

Laura's eyes flutter open, come to focus on him. She gestures wryly at their book, still open on his lap. "Did I miss anything?" she murmurs.

He lifts her hand to his lips. "I did," he whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Are you taking his/her side against me?"
> 
> Set: late season 4.0

She can't remember telling him about this appointment, but he shows up anyway, brings a book, sits in the chair by her bed and watches as Cottle slides the sharp point of the needle into the back of her hand, just below her knuckles. (The delicate skin is bruised and tender from yesterday's treatment, but she doesn't wince, not when he's here to see it.)

"Either put that away or don't get worked up about it," Cottle orders, pointing a cigarette—lit, naturally—at the pile of Fleet requests and Quorum minutes in her lap. "You don't want to get upset right now."

She remembers what happened last time—the crushing nausea, the clawing headache, emptying her stomach over and over into a shallow bowl—and she knows he is right.

But there is so much to do, and so little time.

She gives Cottle's retreating form a sour look over her glasses and picks up her pen.

"I thought we could finish  _Love and Bullets_ ," Bill puts in, his voice low. He won't argue with her—not quite, not over this—but he's not going to give up, either, and they both know it.

She levels her eyes at him. "Are you taking his side against me?"

It's a joke, but it isn't.

"Yes," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily, trying to smile. "The doc and I are plotting against you. We're going to get you better whether you like it or not."

It's a joke, but it isn't.

She already knows she won't be getting better, that there will be no cure, no remission, no weeks or months of comparative peace, of tenuous hope. She can read it in Cottle's eyes, even as she reads it in Pythia's scrolls.

She is dying, and soon.

Bill won't face it, she already knows. He will sit by her side, always with a book, peering through a magnifying glass at tiny print on faded pages so he doesn't have to see that she is fading, too. She knows he pretends her wig is merely a new style, the prominence of her bones a sign of overwork and poor nutrition, the ash of her complexion merely a lack of sunlight.

She knows, because she pretends sometimes, too.

It doesn't help him, and it won't save her. But sometimes, when he looks at her, the need in his eyes so strong, the temptation is too great: to give up being a president, a prophet, a patient (just for a little while) to get to be Laura again, while there is still time.

There is so little time.

He feels it, but he doesn't believe it. Not yet.

He's watching her now, his brow furrowed, his thick shoulders tense, waiting for the bell to ring: the end of the fight, or the start of round two?

But there is so little time.

She lets her pen slide from her fingers, her pile of paperwork fall from her lap. "Yes, sir," she teases.

The relief in his eyes is painful (another stab where she is already sore) and he relaxes, opens the book and reaches for her hand, the one without the needle. (He always holds the hand without the needle. She does not wonder which one of them he fears to hurt.)

It doesn't help him, and it won't save her.

But there is so little time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Quick! Hide behind the sofa!"
> 
> Set: during the Bill/Saul drinking scene in Deadlock

Saul's the one who says it, snorted over the top of his glass when she walks in unexpectedly (coming back for a forgotten briefing book, she'd told Lee, but really aching for a moment of rest, of quiet, for a place to curl up, just for a little while, just until the pain behind her eyes recedes) but Bill's the one who stumbles back against his desk laughing, his movements loose and liquid, the sharp scent of the ambrosia coming off him like waves, like the disappointment and irritation she can feel ( _he_ can feel) radiating from the tight line of her mouth and the tense set of her shoulders.

Sometimes she thinks that there will never be enough time, that she would do anything, pay any price, to have had  _more_ : one more week, one more night, one more chapter. (Laura has been down this particular road before, can see the abyss up ahead. There is no more time, not for her, not for them.)

Sometimes, when their quarters smell like sweat and bile, when she can't remember the last night she spent with Bill, and not Bill and a bottle, when talking to him is like banging her head against a wall of denials and excuses and wishful thinking, when she misses the ease of hanging up the phone, of going back to her ship, of her bed on Colonial One…

Laura would like more from Bill, yes. But the President needs more from the Admiral, and it's a dangerous combination, their weariness and irritation and resentment (he may never forgive her for giving up on her treatment; she may not forgive him for giving up  _now_ ) charging the air.

"Gentlemen," she says, her tone cool, dismissive, as she moves between them to collect her briefing book.

(That she will not stay is a foregone conclusion, that she will be back equally so. The hand that clutches the bottle now is also the hand that tucked the blanket around her this morning, and she does not forget that, even now.)

Saul sits up in his chair (she is still the President to him), but Bill, busy refilling his glass, doesn't react.

She will be gone soon ( _very_ soon, the weight on her chest whispers), and he will have to carry on without her (without  _her_ , Laura, and her, the President). She does not envy him that. When she thinks about that moment—the voice over the wireless,  _It's over, Laura,_ the howling vacuum where her heart used to be—she is not sure she could face it.

But she's here now, and he is the one who's gone.

On her way out, she brushes past him. (Physical distance is not what's between them, not anymore.) When their eyes meet, his glazed-over grief finding her impatience, her sorrow, her  _need_ , it hurts them both, and when he looks away, she's sorry…and relieved.

They both hurt enough.

As she's walking out, he's already pouring another round.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what Laura was thinking when Bill showed up on Kobol
> 
> Set: during Home, part 2

Yesterday they were at war.

Yesterday he was on Galactica, and he was the man who had taken down her government and locked her up, and she was here on Kobol, the woman who had turned his son against him, his daughter against him, split the fleet in two.

Now he’s stretched out beside her, fast asleep under her tarp.

He hadn’t meant to be, of course.  Laura knows that, just as she knows that when he wakes up he’ll be embarrassed to have fallen asleep while they were talking.  She could have woken him, she supposes.  But it’s so late, and it’s dark, and everyone else had long ago fallen into an exhausted sleep…

Bill lets out a gentle snore.

Laura tries very hard not to laugh.  Surely there are better ways to restore diplomatic relations than to be caught by the Commander giggling over his snoring.

Except…diplomatic relations seem to be  _already_  restored.  Laura’s not quite sure why. 

He saw the tomb of Athena, of course.  He stood beside her and Lee and Kara as the ground shifted beneath them, as the stars took new shapes above them and the Gods revealed a map to Earth.

That would change anyone, Laura figures.

Except that didn’t explain why he’d come down to the planet to begin with.

_Laura, I forgive you._

Laura doesn’t have any money—who does, anymore?—but if she did, she would have bet it all that that particular phrase would never pass William Adama’s lips.  And her name; he’s never used her name before, just her title, infusing the syllables with varying degrees of respect and contempt and grudging acceptance.

She knows she’s never used  _his_  name before.

_It’s good to see you._

She believes him.  But she doesn’t understand him.

He snores again, louder this time.

She can’t help it; she laughs.

“Did you say something?” Bill mumbles.

“Nothing,” she whispers.  “Go back to sleep.”

But the sound of her voice seems to have the opposite effect; she can hear the rustling of the ground cover as he pulls himself to wakefulness.  “I guess I fell asleep.”

Laura nods, even though he can’t see her.  “You did.”

A silence stretches between them, and Laura wonders if he’s gone back to sleep.  But here, in this moment, she thinks she can finally ask…

“Bill?”

More rustling, as he rolls over, or sits up—Laura isn’t sure.  “Yes?”

Laura stares up into the darkness.  “What made you decide to put the fleet back together?”

There’s a pause.  “There are too few of us left to let ourselves be divided.”

“I agree,” she says, her voice even.  “But that’s not what I asked.”

Another pause.  “I had to hold my own press conference,” he says at last.  “I figured, if I  _really_  wanted to punish you, I’d make you take your job back.”

She laughs.

And she lets it go.

Maybe she’ll never know quite what made him come back, quite how she got so lucky.

But maybe it’s not important, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the first time Laura tries on her wig
> 
> Set: between The Ties That Bind and Escape Velocity

Cally’s dead.

Not just dead, but  _frozen_ , her body icy, her eyes wide and glassy and blank. 

She put herself out the airlock.

He doesn’t know what her troubles were.  But she was on his ship, on his crew, and she was his responsibility.

He failed her.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was having to sit down with the Chief, and look him in the eye, and tell him what had happened to his wife.

When Bill leaves the Chief’s quarters—not the Chief and Cally’s quarters, not anymore—and opens the hatch to his own, he has exactly one thought in his mind: a drink, and how fast he can get one in his hand, and then down his throat.

And then he sees Laura.

She’s sitting at her desk, a row of wigs in front of her, and her hair… _oh, her hair_ …her beautiful hair, her hair that he has wanted to run his fingers through, bury his face in, her hair that always smells so good, so  _her_ , even when she’s using his shampoo—is gone, her vibrant waves turned to pale clumps, sticking unevenly to her scalp. 

 _I can’t do this_ is his first thought.  But he can’t run away, she’s already seen him, would see him running away, would know that it is as bad as she thinks it is, that he isn’t strong enough to face it—

She’s very pale.  “I thought you had a shift in CIC.”

Of course she did.  She wouldn’t have wanted him to see this.

Maybe she already knows he’s not strong enough for what’s to come.

He swallows, and forces his legs to carry him farther into the room, closer to Laura, to this thing that is happening to her.

“Something came up,” he says.  He will not tell her about Cally, not tonight.  Not when her hair is gone and her eyes are red and there’s the barest trace of a tremble in her voice.

He sits down on the other side of her desk and reaches for her hand.  He does not look away.  He will not let Laura think that this changes anything between them, that she is any less herself now.  Not when he can see in her eyes that she fears that it’s true.

He tries for a smile.  “Does this mean I’m going to get to see you as a blonde?”

She tries to smile, too.  “Tory brought options,” she says.  “But…”

But none of them are perfect, but none of them are her real hair, but all of them are a terrifying next step on this path that she is being forced to take.

He tightens his grip on her hand.  “Let’s see them.” 

* * *

She tries on the blonde one first, for him, and he smiles broadly.  “I think you can pull it off,” he says.  “Of course, it’s a little sexy for Madame President, but morale  _has_  been kind of low in the fleet lately…”

Laura rolls her eyes, but her hands aren’t shaking so badly anymore, and he’s calling that a victory.

The next one is long, and red, and curly, which should be better, but somehow it’s worse.  It’s too close to her real hair; it’s obviously a wig, obviously a fake.

He watches Laura watch herself in the mirror, her lips very white.

He shakes his head.  “Too dangerous,” he says.  “You look like you should be on the cover of a romance novel.  Everyone will be too busy staring at you to get any work done.  I  _am_  trying to run a battlestar here, you know.”

She rolls her eyes, again, but he can see the gratitude in them.  She tries the last wig.

It’s much darker than her real hair, and shorter, and the cut is too severe, particularly against the pallor of her skin, the way her bones seem to sit too close to the surface.

But it’s her best option, and they both know it.

“Perfect,” he says.  “It’s like you just cut your hair.  No one will be able to tell the difference.”

He doubts that that’s true.  But then, he doubts that anyone else in the fleet pays quite as much attention to how she looks as he does, watches her quite so closely.

She takes a deep breath, then another.  “Okay, then.”

Of course it isn’t okay.

He nods, and squeezes her hand.  “Okay, then.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bill taking delivery of the box of Laura's things when everyone thinks that she's dead
> 
> Set: during Sine Qua Non

There’s no ceremony to it; Tory just raps on the hatch and hands him a box neatly labeled  _Laura Roslin: personal effects_. 

“I thought you should have them,” she says.  There is no sympathy in her dark eyes, but there is an understanding, a hint that maybe Laura’s assistant had gleaned that there was more to his and Laura’s living arrangement than mere convenience, more to Laura’s presence in his quarters than the hospitality of the Admiral to the President.

He’s never liked Tory.

He likes her even less now.

He nods an acknowledgment and takes the box inside.  It’s lighter than he would have thought, smaller, fitting easily in his arms.  Surely Laura’s things should take up more  _space_?

Except it was Laura who took up space…and Laura is gone.

No, he corrects himself.  Laura isn’t gone.  Laura will be back.

He puts the box down on the table and pours himself a drink.  If Laura were here, she would lift her eyebrows at the amount, and he would be irritated, and he would drink another, just to prove that he could.

But Laura isn’t here.

He settles down on the couch and stares at the box.  He wants so badly to open it, to immerse himself in her things, to have a tangible reminder of her mind, her voice, her scent.

But opening this box will mean that she’s really gone, and he’s not ready to do that.

Not when he still believes that she’s coming back.

And Laura has to come back.

But putting the box away would be like putting Laura away, and he can’t bear to do that, either.

He drains his glass, pours another, pours it straight down his throat. 

_Enjoying that more than usual?_

Laura would have made a remark by now. 

But his quarters are silent.

At last, his empty glass clutched in his hand, his head warm and buzzing, he lifts the lid off the box, and peers inside.

Her copy of the Sacred Scrolls sits neatly on top.

And then he’s running, his hand over his mouth, barely making it to the head before his stomach convulses, emptying itself over and over, the alcohol burning his throat.  When he’s spent, when the spasms fade, he leans against the wall, the bulkhead cool against his cheek.

Laura would be pissed.

She would want him to pull himself together, and take a shower, and button up his uniform, and lead their people to Earth.  He knows that.

But he can’t. 

Not alone.  Not without her. 

When he finally staggers out, he puts the lid on the box without looking, and picks it up, and leaves it on her desk. 

When she comes back, she can unpack it herself.


End file.
